Half Of October

And where it went, I refuse to accept.

Probably because what went with time, I know I cannot retrieve, exactly as time.

Or I cannot hurry whatever I assume, pray will still return.

*

Given our changes are still us, where are those who've changed with
us?, through us?

*

Amazing how time passes swiftly along with waiting. And hurt does not
hurt enough.

Yet almost crazily I obsess with beginnings and endings, like my
sanity relies solely as to where I place my self in the spectrum.

*

What I give may be mine--what of those I'm not willing to let go of?

The giving game is fun only when someone's needing.

*

Half of October is spent in doubting and hanging on to whatever's left
to hold on to: dreams, deceit; what's left of good intentions;
figuring the extent of things I could do and the extent of what I
could forgive, thus accept.

I measure my days with how much I manage to live without: messages
and a plea for a call, the desire to send messages and call.

Most checked out

The soul of Wit

I'm a friend of Matthew's

The incandescent Jef

The sound, the vision, The 1975

Electric shock

'Care Divas' is an audacious mess

A long tram ride